The Body Remembers
by Rhen Nightshade
Summary: England was drunk. So was Russia, for that matter. But it was fine… Until England decided to deny Russia's superior claim to America. Of course, Russia couldn't just leave that unpunished, can he?


**The Body Remembers  
****Summary: **England was drunk. So was Russia, for that matter. But it was fine… Until England decided to deny Russia's superior claim to America. Of course, Russia couldn't just leave that _unpunished_, can he?  
**Warning: Drunk sex, RussiaEngland, and a three-way relationship.  
****Believe it or not, this prompt was given to me by cecpta, who seems to hate yaoi with a fierce passion. She wasn't even insane! This has gotten her named "the crack and kink queen"… Yeah. Read.  
I thank elepaio for beta-ing this!**

* * *

England was drunk. Drunk, wasted, plastered, insane, past tispy, intoxicated. Yes, he was utterly, completely drunk. So was everyone else, actually.

Not that Russia was an exception. He knew his limits, even as he downed vodka almost like water, relishing the hot, searing, burning sensation of the alcohol running down his throat. He'd drunk enough to not be remember the night clearly, but not enough to entirely forget, and definitely not enough to be acting as insane as England, who was running around with a huge, newly opened second bottle of whiskey and no shirt.

He noted, with a small feeling of angry interest, that America appeared to be very much enjoying England's show. America… Their mutual lover.

Russia downed another shot, forcing his mind away from his and England's positions with America. _Tonight, no matter_.

He continued to watch the pair, taking careful note of the level of insanity that the two of them combined were letting lose. He vaguely considered joining them, if only to take America as harshly as he was allowed… But he hadn't had enough vodka to do that. Not even close.

England was dancing. Dancing, laughing, face flushed with the exhilaration of alcohol as he slid up and down a support pole quite… suggestively, singing every now and then. Russia could also see France and Prussia whistling loud catcalls before having their attention snatched by an equally drunk Italy. It was rather interesting, what could come out from taking almost all of the nations to a bar.

"Russia!~" America cried out, arms wrapping around the cold, mildly surprised nation. He hadn't noticed America leave England. A messy lick drug up his neck, to his ear, followed by a breathy giggle and hiccup.

"Isn't Iggy awesome?"

Russia scowled, face dark for a moment. America, talking about another lover when with him.

"He's just so cute when he's _drunk_~"

Russia could smell the tang of beer on America's breath, bitter and sour and yet somewhat inviting. After all, America was one of the few who drank the abysmally bland substance.

He twisted his head, catching his lover in a quick, wet kiss that tasted horribly like moldy water. He raised a hand, skimming over the front of America's shirt, intent on pulling the other into his lap and having his way.

"Mine!"

England's voice was haughtily childish, possessive, as he pulled America from Russia's grasp. He pouted from behind the blonde, cheeks red with heat.

"He's _mine_." England started dragging America from behind, scowling at Russia angrily. "You can't have him!"

Russia was somewhat surprised, appalled at the gall of this drunk who was intent on taking _his_ plaything. Then he smirked, leaning forward in intoxicated smugness.

"Are you so sure of that, little Англия? He screams so wildly when he becomes one…" Violet eyes darted to cerulean for a quick second. "Da?"

Even when drunk, America had the decency to blush a vivid shade of scarlet.

England glared, pushing America behind him and marching up to Russia. The ashen-haired nation raised an eyebrow as he took in the fact that while he was distracted by America hanging off of him, the Englishman had changed clothes to The Waiter Outfit.

"I'm sure!" His eyes, although foggy and slightly distant, narrowed in a searing, emerald, angry stare.

_America was right._ Russia mused, licking away a stray drop of vodka. _England is rather… wonderful when drunk._

And rather alluring. He looked so warm, panting, his face flushed and red-pink creeping down his chest. He still wielded the whiskey bottle, which he now raised to his lips for a substantial swallow.

_England is too drunk to contemplate remembering anything in the morning_. Russia mused, almost nonchalantly throwing his head back with a shot of his own burning alcohol.

_Then it's fine_. He set the glass down with a thump among all of the others, vaguely wondering why he hadn't done what England had and simply gotten a bottle.

"England." His slightly intoxicated tone held with it promise, low and seductive and somewhat threateningly arousing. "Come here."

England shivered, feeling the rumbling danger in the other's heated voice even through the whiskey.

"N- No." He crossed his arms and stepped back, intent on returning to close proximity so the safety that was America. "Not ha-"

Russia's hand shot out, fingers rapping around England's upper arm in a forceful grip and then he _pulled_, the smaller nation tumbling forward into Russia's lap. His face was wrenched upwards, pulled by the ashen-haired's free hand and his lips were captured in a bruising, forceful, angry kiss. Russia's tongue forced its way into his mouth and roamed, pressing on overly sensitive areas _England didn't even know he had_.

It wasn't long before he surrendered, too hot and drunk to care too much, moaning low in his throat and hollowing his cheeks to force more out of Russia. He reached up, free arm twisting around the other's neck, pressing his body closer in search of the cold, furious passion.

Russia smirked as the drunk forced himself closer and higher, allowing England to lift himself and straddle his hips to the best of his ability. _So complacent._

His gloved hand trailed itself down England's neck, scraping over his best chest before sliding over the blonde's sensitive nipples in a motion that was _anything_ but gentle.

England whimpered at the attention, his already sensitive body reaching new heights due to the liquid fire racing through his system. Dizzy, uncaring, exited, all he could focus on was the sensation and how bloody fucking _exhilarating_ everything was. More. He wanted more.

"Holy. Fuck."

Russia pulled away, focusing again on their tipsy lover, ignoring England's moan of displeasure and gasps for air. America was open-mouthed, nonplussed, staring from one to the other and then back again.

"What the fuck-?" He couldn't seem to comprehend the actions of his two lovers. They hated each other. But Russia and England were… Were… Were…

"America~" Russia's voice, low and lusty, sent shivers down his spine and set his hair on end. "Privyet – Let no one interrupt us. Do well and I will…" His smile, slow and dark, was all the incentive America needed. He nodded quickly, reluctantly turning around and loudly ordering more alcohol for everyone.

Russia returned his gaze to England, who was attempting to remove the larger nation's clothes. He _tsk_-ed, grabbing England's hands and forcing them behind the smaller one's back.

"Now, now, little England~" He pursed, slightly slurring the words without meaning to. "We can't do that, da? We are in a bar, you must be… discreet."

"I don't fucking care." England mumbled, trying to pull the arm with his whiskey back to his front. "S'no' fair." At that tone, his words crashed into each other and mingled in the most confusing of ways. "You go' more on, ge'it off…"

Russia smirked, pulling the bottle from England's fingers and setting it among the many shot glasses with a thump and many clinks. The blonde cried out in indignation, twisting to watch as his treasure was placed well out of reach.

"Hey!" He whined in protest, hazed over emerald-jade eyes glaring as they whipped back to Russia's own, lusty but carrying something that resembled anger. "That's _mine!_"

Russia ignored the outcry, his hand making its way between England's legs to rub through the top of the black, skirt-like apron. The drunk gasped loudly, hips bucking up for more, meeting the cold nation's hand. "But Russia will tell you when you can have it, da?"

England opened his mouth to attempt something that may have once been speech, writhing in the other's grasp in displeasure. Of course, in his drunken state he had disregarded the position of Russia's hand, and his protest swelled in his throat and fell from his lips in a loud moan that pulsated with wanton energy.

Russia swallowed the noise hungrily, angrily, stealing the sound even as he pressed harder and harder at the growing arousal that the other's apron did nothing to hide. England bucked with purpose now, attempting to twist his tongue for more of the taste of Russia: vodka and ice and bitter cold. They remained as such, England's voice groaning in desperation – desperation for a relief for this heat boiling in him, for more feeling, and also for air, air that Russia had stolen and replaced with his tongue.

England's hand twisted into Russia's shirt, yanking, pounding, intense and hot against the ashen-haired's colder frame. He couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't hear anything but his pulse, tasted nothing but snow and vodka, and could feel absolutely no sensation save for Russia's rough, overwhelming touches.

Russia released England's hand to claw down the blonde's chest, the fabric of his own gloves adding to the already fierce scraping sensation. He smirked as the uncaring nation arched into his grasp, probably unaware that he was doing so. The blood pounded in his ears, loud, almost drowning out the world, all the world but England's low, rapid, keening cries.

Until he heard America whine in disappointment. He chuckled, removing his mouth from England's allowing him to refill his lungs.

"America, I know you like what you see~" Russia slurred, the words mingling in the purr that his voice had become. England held onto him, clutching tightly, almost as if he was a lifeline. "So be a good boy and keep others away so we may continue~"

America twisted around, chest heaving, somehow barely managing to restrain his jealousy of the pair, as well as a sudden desire to jump Iggy and Russia then and there. He wanted to join them, and in his current state he saw no problem with doing so, but many problems with _not_ doing so. But he couldn't do that, not even as he heard England moan and slur.

"Hurr' up~" The drunk purred, apron riding up his body slightly. "M' want chu~" He raised himself up, skin gleaming in the artificial neon light, mouth open in the intent to meet Russia's as best as he could. "M' kill you if you don't continue…"

And then cold glass was pressed to his lips, a burn following the wonderful, amber liquid. He was shocked, coughing, the alcohol running down his neck and chest. So surprisingly wet, cold against his heated skin, dripping as he continued to splutter. Seconds later, he recognized the flavor – whiskey – and leaned into the bottle, working to swallow the sloshing drink.

"Whiskey is no good~" Russia hummed, one hand holding the encumbering bottle to England's lips while the other groped for vodka. He forced that into England's mouth as well, removing the whiskey with a low pop. "Don't swallow~"

England, unable to hear that over the sudden beats in his ear, music or pulse he couldn't tell, closed his mouth around the new, horrendous, clear liquid. His Adam's apple bobbed, the lightest trickle of alcohol beginning to slide down his throat.

Russia's hand shot out, fingers clenching around England's throat and squeezing, stopping the flow of alcohol and air alike. He smiled as England thrashed his head around, mouth falling open with the mix of whiskey and vodka splashing down his chest.

"Don't waste vodka." Russia frowned, leaning down, right hand returning to the blonde's arousal. "Bad England. You should be punished."

His tongue drug up England's chest and then cheek, tasting both blends of danger before plunging into his mouth, sucking out each and every drop before releasing the emerald-eyes nation's neck and pulling back. The combination of whiskey and vodka seared his throat, horribly incompatible and viciously unpleasant, but he swallowed anyways.

He watched England's chest heave in desperation, hands clawing at Russia's hand as his hips bucked up to meet the friction at his crotch.

England tried to gasp, shout, mewl and wail, but he couldn't. So hot, so dizzy, a fog creeping in the corners of his mind as he vaguely realized that he should be angry at Russia. But Russia was so cold, a sharp contrast to the overwhelming flame in his body and it felt so- so-

Russia pulled away both hands, watching England's hands fly to his throat. He coughed, exhaling, inhaling, unfocused eyes slowly clearing. Russia smiled at his cry of protest, strangled and short, as he realized that _Russia wasn't touching him any more_. Russia had said he needed to punish him, da?

England was pushed backwards, until he lay almost entirely on the table. His shoulders were pressed against the tabletop, hips set on top of Russia's legs.

"Be quiet, little England~" Russia pulled his scarf loose, but not off, one finger set tauntingly in front of his lips. "America can't keep them away if you try to draw all of their attentions. Don't you want to be alone when you become one?"

The only words that registered as important to the dunk were "become one".

He opened his mouth to speak, to whine and beg out his desire as vodka suddenly spilled into his jaw, Russia lightly kol-ing as he spluttered. England was so cute when in distress~

And so delicious.

"Vodka is better than whiskey, da?" He asked, voice honeyed with lust, biting and sucking at the spilled trails with enough force to leave splotches of wonderfully discolored skin, pressing at England's shoulder with the intent to bruise.

Why hadn't he done this before? It made no sense to his alcohol-addled mind. America was his, he had to prove that his claim was prevalant. And England was so _willing_, moaning around the vodka even though he knew he shouldn't, hips bucking upwards, arms bent back over his head to better display his delicate, tempting frame. The blonde coughed, choking in the clear, overflowing liquid fire as his body _demanded_ to be heard, rendering him unable to swallow, unable to do anything.

His back arched, bent like a bow and just as taught as Russia scraped his gloved hand over the Brit's nipples, the material rough against the hypersensitive skin. Smirking at the predictable, anticipated reaction, Russia repeated the movement again and again until the only thing that muffled England's wanton screams to mumbles and coughs was the sinfully fiery Russian drink that seared with each drop that escaped down England's throat.

Russia refused to return his ministrations to England's cock, refraining from granting the Brit anything, smiling darkly all the while. Cute little England, so dirty and wanton~ Giving in so easily, slut?

"Англия, what do you want? Маленькая шлюха Америки." He crooned, voice sickly-sweet.

England, unable to speak, unable to form a coherent through between the whiskey and his lust, rocked back and forth with small coughing mewls before bucking his hips up until he somehow ground into Russia's still-clothed chest.

"Англия~" Russia chastised, forcing the drunk back down into submission. "that is no answer. So filthy, little шлюха, you must say _words_. But you should be quiet, so many people around~"

England struggled to swallow so that he might _attempt_ speech, but his efforts were in vain, as Russia chose that exact moment to force whiskey into his mouth. The liquor commingled with the vodka, resulting in garbled coughs of rejection for the scorching, horrendously putrid taste. Russian vodka, English whiskey, exquisite when tasted separately, yet tremendously incompatible together. The mix streaked down England's cheeks, down his chin, pooling at the hollow of this throat and at each dip at his chest.

"So messy, dirty little one~" A hum at England's ear, low and dangerously heavy. "You should clean up, Кролик. Or will I have to clean you?"

No verbal reply, England couldn't manage, couldn't even hear Russia's words over his shock, let alone comprehend their meaning. All he could remotely focus on at all – other than the demanding, boiling heat in his groin – was his need for air, to gasp and pant and hear the sound of his blood pounding in his head, leaving his dizzy and restrained.

Unbeknownst to England, his hands had moved from over his head and moved lower, sliding down his sides and under the small apron to palm his straining, pulsating, needy cock. He gasped, the small amount of breath he had managed to gain wrestled away from him at the surprising touch.

"Naughty Кролик." England's head was forced to the side, his form made to roll onto his front, arms put behind his back and held there by the larger, formidable nation as unmistakable, quiet laughter rang in his ear. "You can't do that when you're so dirty, da? Кролик, you need to be cleaned first~"

England didn't want to be cleaned. He wanted to be _fucked!_ Fucked by this cold, ashen-haired nation until he screamed in ecstasy, in pain, in release!

He felt cloth at his chest, papery and thin and flimsy – a cheap paper napkin – moving to soak up the result of his drunken, messy spills. It skimmed up and down his body, heavy and forceful, avoiding his most sensitive areas. He whined, writhing his hips, desperate for something else, something _more_. Words failed to pass his lips as he was painfully and undoubtedly denied, completely unsatisfied.

"Fucking… Bloody…" He managed, the napkin scraping over his cheek now. "Just- just-"

"But you're not clean yet, шлюха~" Russia crooned, biting at the smaller nation's jawline. "You must be cleaned first, and I am the only one who is able to do so." He smirked, twisting England's head the other way, dragging the soiled scrap across his other side.

"Don't… want… clean…" England choked out, the words unintelligible to any other, running into each other in a drunken garble.

"Then what do you want, Кролик?" Russia's voice was dangerously low, dangerously innocent and breathy as he yanked England's head backwards and continued to _clean_.

England gasped, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "I want you to fu-!"

"Your mouth is dirty too, how to you speak such filth?" Russia shoved two fingers into the blonde's mouth, silencing the words. The papery substance followed, blocking England's airflow, silencing his plea. Russia smiled, licking at the tears as England screamed, yelled in silent frustration.

Russia glanced around coolly, wondering who might have heard the Brit's outcry. No one looked their way – not even France. They were too busy watching America… Who was performing a strip-tease with his flag. He had even begun playing music, something spitting out "_Fuck you're so gorgeous._" Both of them, his America and the little Кролик- шлюха, so naughty. He may even need to punish America later – And he knew just what he would do…

Russia returned his gaze back to England, unadulterated mischief and darkened lust etched into his smirk as he pulled England by the hair and stared into upside-down, infuriated green eyes. Wanton, lidded, enraged, intoxicated pools of the most beautiful emerald…

England felt so abused, so teased, why wouldn't Russia just hurry up and take him? He knew Russia wanted it, he could _feel_ that Russia wanted it, the proof ground dangerously at his tailbone, trapped in its thick woolen prison.

He slid backwards, then to each side, grinding his ass into Russia's insistent arousal, intent on provoking some, _any_, reaction from the cold nation. His arms remained crushed at his back, between him and Russia; and thus he was effectively restrained from touching himself, from running his hands over his chest and then lower, giving in to the desire of that tight, coiled, _demanding_ heat at his groin.

As he squirmed, his apron rose higher and higher until it slid almost entirely up over his ass, revealing it to be bare. His ministrations were rewarded, Russia's violet eyes darkening further in primal want.

Harshly, Russia's hips bucked up, slamming into England, eliciting an eager, surprised cry from the smaller. His eyes screwed up in feeling, mouth held open and saliva cloying his gasp. England drove himself downwards, grinding into Russia, desperate for a repeat of the motion.

"Ahhhnnn!" England choked, pulling his head forward, tearing his eyes from Russia's. His thoughts came too fast to be sorted, too fast to follow; _Fuck me fuck me hurry up and fuck me I want it you want it please so hot so hot burning, it hurts relieve me fuck me, so hot, it's so hot!_

"Кролик, шлюха, so eager~" Russia released England's hair, wrapping his arms around the heated form and sliding his gloves off. "Distressed симпатичная Англия."

His fingers skittered, scraped down England's chest, tormenting the skin as he refused to be gentle, leaving marks that would last for days. He spread the other's legs, clutching hard enough to bruise as he looked over the wanton nation.

Red with heat, eyes lidded, England leaned back while willingly locking his arms behind him, between them. His eyes were spread wide under Russia's hands, apron sliding up his waist and hips until it just _barely_ remained over his quivering, tearing, flushed and hard erection. Saliva slid from the corners of his mouth as he mewled, arching towards and away from Russia's ice-cold touch at the same time.

Lower and lower, pressing into the meat of England's body and ignoring his arousal, Russia's fingers explored until they came in contact with the smaller nation's entrance. One hand snaked back upwards to the blonde's mouth, plucking the soiled paper away to thrust his fingers into its place. The digits at England's ass prodded and played with his tight, dry hole. He felt like acting at least marginally civil and properly opening the smaller nation.

England sucked and licked at Russia's fingers, bobbing his head up and down jerkily in abrupt, uninhibited movements. He strained to fit as much of the digits as he could into his mouth, tongue wrapping around their length, determined to get them all wet and slick to the point where his shoulders rose away from Russia's body in his strain to meet the start of his relief.

"Hurry…" England slurred, running his tongue over the underside of Russia's middle finger. "Hurry, hurry~"

Russia pulled away, one strand of transparent liquid connecting the tips of this fingers to England's wet, hot mouth before snapping and allowing the moisture to gather on the Brit's lower lip. The slick digits made short order in their trip to England's ass and then forced _in_, with no warning in the least.

England's back arched, a wordless cry falling from his lips. The intrusion stretched him so suddenly, so different from America's slow, gentler probing. It wasn't an intrusion at this point; it was an _invasion_. Every single muscle in his body erupted into spasms in an attempt to reject Russia, it _hurt_, but he couldn't, it felt too _good_.

He moaned, head falling back, back bowed enough that his arms were freed and his hands moved downwards to grip Russia's thighs; he was desperate for support in his dizzying exhilaration. He rocked back in a second, willingly impaling himself in order to gain _more_.

Infinite hours later, or maybe a few moments, or perhaps the world stopped had spinning entirely, England could vaguely discern, between the intoxication and the lust, that Russia had removed his fingers. England turned his head back and forth, barely hearing the quiet rustle of Russia's pants over his own rapid heartbeat.

And then his hips were held- no, too weak a word, gripped hard enough to discolor, certainly to bruise, and he was slammed down, effectively impaled, invaded by Russia. His hands flew to his mouth, catching his wanton scream. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed in sensation, suffocating under the ache.

Russia didn't wait for England to become accustomed to the intrusion, bucking his hips up while keeping the other's motionless, secure. He leaned over the smaller nation's shoulder, dragging his tongue over the tears.

He reached out for England's whiskey, free arm sliding around the blonde's waist and holding fast. He forced the bottle to England's hips, the draught of sickening perfect grain sloshing half inside the Brit's mouth, half over his throat and chest.

"Don't you want it?" Russia smirked, dangerous and predatory. "Then take it, little кролик. Шлюха."

England, whining, met each thrust best he could while held down and reached up, fingers shakily encircling the neck of the bottle. He was unable to keep it within his mouth and it spilled all over his frame as his body was bucked upwards and back down. He almost was unable to swallow, reduced to mewling choked gasps.

Some music, something with a heavy beat and slutty words, roared around them, as loud as chaotically as England's heartbeat as he began to slam himself down, working against Russia's grip, hot and eager.

Russia was touching him now, not just as a tease or an anchor, pressing at the hardness under England's apron and clawing at the Brit's chest. He tweaked and squeezed his counterpart's nipples, rolling the sensitive nubs as England coughed, caught halfway between a swallow and a moan.

The bottle was almost empty now, mostly wasted, but there was another close at hand, full and open – America must have put it there sometime, there was no other explanation – and England lunged for it on instinct, the former container allowed to roll over the counter.

He bucked into Russia's hand, cold and moving, sliding under his apron and pumping and pressing in all the right places. Such a contrast, his boiling, coiling heat to Russia's colder presence; it was so harsh it was frighteningly erotic, so bloody erotic.

The heat coiled tight in his groin, pulsating, demanding release. It throbbed to the point of being painful, a rushing tide that pounded under his skin, growing in power with each rough stroke on his cock, each thrust into his body, at the dangerous words in Russian being purred into his ear, even with each swallow of whiskey.

And then Russia stopped again, grabbing his hips and moving him slightly, testing a new angle, a new strike, a-

England screamed, bending forward, the alcohol splashing messily everywhere. Somehow he was ignored by the rest of the bar, thank America as he was blinded by a tidal wave of heat as his prostate was slammed dead-on with each new thrust. How he was still conscious, how he hadn't come, he didn't know and he didn't _care_.

He looked downwards, unable to see; and he was unable to drink; it was sloshing in irregular patterns and thus splashing, a waste, over his entire body. All at once, his muscles tightened as his entire focus dropped lower, on clutching Russia and making him give more, so much more-

"Vanya?"

Russia held England still, England who wanted to buck and thrust back into the larger nation's grasp.

"Drink up, little Кролик~" He purred, arms wrapping around England's waist to secure him as Ukraine made her own, slightly unstable, way to him. She, herself, was much less of a heavy drinker than her brother, but she failed to notice England and Russia's position.

"Vanya, what are you doing with England? Why aren't you with America?"

"Katyusha, what are you doing _here_?" Russia asked, paling slightly even as he mischievously rubbed against England's erection. The blonde's eyes fluttered shut as he guzzled, slowly, his amber draught. "Is сестра here?"

"Nuh-uh." Ukraine shook her head, breasts following her slight sway. "Didn't know you were going to be here. You never accept invitations."

She stood there for a second, a look of puzzlement on her face before she suddenly seemed to notice how England was positioned on her brother's lap, how he fought to move his hips. And his flush, too hot to simply be from alcohol. She blushed vivid scarlet, looking back to Russia's violet eyes. Only now could she see the lust and anger in the amethyst orbs.

"V- Vanya!" She squealed, stepping back in shock. One hand flew to her mouth, the other clutched at her breasts. "What- What are you-?"

Russia smirked darkly, releasing England and bucking upwards so that his plaything unwillingly moaned, pressing back, apron pushed so far that it only barely covered his wet, dripping erection. Pre-cum stained the black fabric and slid down his length, pooling at his base.

"Katyusha, we are a little busy right now." He laughed for a moment at Ukraine's shocked expression. "Perhaps you will come back later, da?" His hand slid down England's legs and then up his inner thigh to return his attention to-

"G- Goodbye!" Ukraine squeaked out, turning away and running off as red as the sun.

Again, Russia laughed, the breath loud in England's ear. He palmed England's erection, up-down, over, thumbing the slit and smearing the pre-cum over the hot flesh. He refused to gasp as his partner was, and instead his breath came in heavy pants and slight grunts as he pounded into England's.

Everything, ever touch and sensation, every thought and every taste of sinful whiskey was too much to England – too much, too powerful. The coil in his groin tightened tensing and locking into a hard _demand_ more than a feeling before, all at once, it snapped and so did England. His back arched as he came, _hard_, his sweet splattering against Russia's hand and the inside of his apron.

Exhausted, England could hardly manage to hold himself upright to ride out his high. He swore in Old English, allowing the bottle he had clutched tight enough for his knuckles to turn white to hit the table as Russia _continued_ to thrust into his spent frame.

In a minute, dark and overcome with England's suffocatingly tight heat, Russia succumbed to orgasm, releasing himself into England in satisfied silence.

Neither could move, England drowsily fighting sleep to the best of his drunken ability. Then Russia grabbed him at the waist and hoisted him up and away, unceremoniously dropping the blonde to the ground.

Sticky-white cum slid down England's leg, uncomfortable and hot. He shuddered at the feeling, trying to return to his- his- Didn't Russia used to be among the nations he loathed the most? Whatever.

He was held at arm's length away from the larger nation, who had already cleaned up and was perfectly at ease, throwing his head back as he took another heavy swallow of vodka. He almost seemed to threaten England with his smirk as the Brit was kept at a safe distance.

"Little Кролик, you should go to America. He will be worried about his неряха." Russia nodded towards their mutual lover who was dancing almost without a care to some song playing _"Delicious and naughty~"_. "Cute little _England,_" The word was almost a curse, mocking. "Dripping seeded hot snow down his leg, run to my America…"

England scowled, pulling his apron down in an attempt to hide the telltale smears that spread so much lower.

"Dun' wanna. And he's _mine_." He muttered, smacking away Russia's hand to sit next to the ashen-haired nation. "You keep stealing him. Evil bastard. Hate you."

Russia's triumphant outward behavior didn't falter, though confusion graced his face for a moment. "So, Кролик, why are you _here_?"

England's head hit the table, loosely holding the base of the almost empty, wasted bottle of whiskey. "M' tired and dun' wanna move…"

In a light, careful and cautious movement, Russia touched the strangely docile drunk, running his hand through his rival's hair. Who then moved into the touch, eyes closed, almost falling over into Russia's lap again.

It was a minute or so before Russia realized that England has actually _fallen asleep_, exhausted from their recent activity, and it was simply impulse that had moved the drunk's body.

"Кролик, you'll forget this all in the morning." He murmured, looking away to stare into his dirty, empty shotglass. "And then America will comfort your hangover. And we will hate each other."

He smirked again, looking at the sleeping nation out of the corner of his eye.

"But the body remembers what the mind forgets… _England_."

And with that, Russia rose, leaving the little rabbit behind.

* * *

**Prompt: **Russia and England, drunk, in a bar. They must do it _in the bar_. And Russia's sister must interrupt them near the end.

**This was… interesting?… to write… I asked cecpta for a prompt, and this is what I got… She's the crack and kink queen…**

**I will be brutally honest. I used a Google translator. Why? Because I have no idea how to speak more than a few words of Russian and no way to get the phrases I needed. Here's what I meant to say, if any of them are wrong, **_**please**_** tell me…**

**Кролик – Rabbit  
****Англия – England  
****Шлюха – Whore  
****Неряха – Slut  
****Сестра – Sister  
****Маленькая шлюха Америки – America's little whore  
****симпатичная Англия – cute England**

**Reviews, anyone? Anyone at all?**


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